


Absolute Zero

by Hambone



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Dark, Dreamlike, M/M, Medical Device, Minor Violence, Restraints, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blurr awakens to a cold room and an unwelcome savior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolute Zero

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a kinkmeme fill, but I took a LOT of liberties with it because I wanted to really make this work and it just got wild. Either way I'm crediting the prompt, [here](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/491.html?thread=430059#t430059) .

Cold.

Blurr floated to the surface of consciousness and looked through the haze of waves before his face, trying to make out the green foam figures that danced before him. His fingers crawled at his sides but he couldn’t raise them and break free. He was so, so cold.

“Agent.”

Arching up wildly, Blurr gasped for breath, the veil lifted as sensation shocked through his entire system. It was too much data at once and he heard himself scream without pain, the surprised howl of being alive when he shouldn’t have been.

“What’s going-what’s going-what’s going-what’s going-what’s going-what’s going-what’s going-!” he tried to reset his vocalizer but his throat simply contracted tight and he gasped again, trying to pull up his knees. Something was holding his legs in place, something by his feet, but he could bend them upwards enough to shake in the anguish of the unknowing. His wrists felt like lead beside him. Something clicked into place in his mind, images around him focusing from random factoids into a complete picture. He was in a room, possibly medical, possibly science related. Glass and aluminum everywhere. Vents in the ceiling had protective shielding over them, various screens. Science, probably. His wrists were tied down and he was desperately hungry. There was a smell in the air like burning rubber. The back of his head felt heavy.

“Agent,” said the voice again, to his direct left, very close, and he tried to jump off the table, spraining his limbs as he remained trapped, “Agent Blurr, calm yourself.”

He made a bleary crackling noise, feeling like he had a full mouth.

“It-it-it-it’s Longarmmmm,” he accidentally bit his own tongue and yelped.

“We know, Agent.” Perceptor laid a hand on his arm.

“Ho-h-”

“Your data files were intact when we found you. Your mission is complete.”

The words had the effect that was intended, thousands of stellar cycles of conditioning resonating through his frame as he instantly relaxed. Mission complete. He was successful. Perceptor’s hand trailed up his arm gently and he shifted slightly, uncomfortable. He wanted to recharge again. He hated these crowded walls. His fuel tanks pulled in sharply.

“I,” he licked his lips, trying to clear his mind, but it was hard, “I was trapped. The walls- I must have run but I thought I wasn’t going to make it, I thought I was, the walls were so close and I must have gotten away somehow.”

“You didn’t.”

Perceptor’s voice was so bland and sharp that he almost winced.

“What do you mean by that?”

Words were coming more easily now. It was hard to move his head to get a good look at the scientist, and he realized the weight he’d felt earlier was a mass of wires in his medical ports. The realization came with a flurry of updates he hadn’t noticed, but they all seemed wrong. Bio-lighting online. Connections 334, 5876, 3947, 37, and 9029E online. Left optical recalibration complete. Connections 3756H, 293, 37B746 online. Third fuel tank inoperative.

“You didn’t escape, Agent Blurr. You were crushed,” Perceptor’s fingers met with his shoulder and then traced down again, over the pit of his elbow and to his wrist, “they didn’t think you were salvageable,” it tickled and Blurr shifted, “but I saved you.” His cool hands began to disconnect the cables.

It was an odd thing to have said, Blurr realized, particularly from Perceptor, who did not feel, and did not brag. But it was a brag, if one concealed in a stout monotone. He looked at Perceptor, blinking rapidly.

“Thank you, Perceptor, sir.”

His face was blank. Just as blank as Longarm’s had been before he changed. A shiver ran through Blurr and he could not break his stare. Perhaps this was a dream.

“Hmm,” said Perceptor, just like that, pale and unexpressive, and then he swing a leg up with some small difficulty and pulled himself onto the table, between Blurr’s legs. Blurr jumped again but not as hard this time, less from the surprise of what the scientist was doing and more from the way their thighs brushed together. _Danger_ , said his instincts. _The walls_.

“I’m sorry if this is an inappropriate question, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t really understand exactly what’s happening right now and I still feel a little confused from booting up and did you say I had been crushed, actually crushed, that seems very bad and now your hand is on my leg and I don’t really understand and well what I mean to say is what are you doing?”

The mentioned hand slid up and down the top of his thigh just as it had his arm a moment ago, gentle, soft strokes. They weren’t soft because of care, more out of curiosity. It felt as though Perceptor was studying him, mapping him out. The touch moved lower, turning to cup his inner thigh.

“I saved you.”

“I know, sir,” said Blurr, suddenly very frustrated with everything, frustrated because he was scared and getting more so, “that really doesn’t answer my question about what you are doing to me.”

Perceptor’s hand hooked down sharply, under his thigh, right in the junction between his groin and leg. It was a decisive move, a telling move, and Perceptor looked him directly in the optic as he did it.

“I saved you, and I am taking my due.”

Unfeeling, unsympathetic. Blurr’s spark jumped inside the cage of his breast, unable to stop from skipping into a panic.

“Sir, I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do.”

Perceptor scooted closer, skinny and unassuming and blank. Blurr was terrified. His fingers felt like ice, the ice of space he had run through to reach Longarm. Longarm, who had crushed him, whose blank face looked so much like Perceptor’s did now.

“I don’t – I don’t want to understand this, I don’t want you to do this, I don’t want-” Perceptor’s hand cupped his crotch, rubbing against his panel with the flat of his palm, “Stop it! I don’t want you to do this!”

It didn’t stop him. It didn’t even prompt a reply; either engrossed in what he was doing or fully uncaring of Blurr’s pleas, Perceptor continued to grind his hand into the soft metal. Soft, new metal. Blurr felt zings of current run up his spine unbidden, pleasure popping and crackling inside his panels and making his hips jump erratically.

This was really happening. He had known it was, processing a mile a minute, but he had kept telling himself it wasn’t until this moment. Pushing back on the table with his heels, Blurr looked down at the mech between them and felt the corona of his spark bleed pure terror.

_“Help me! Primus, stop it! Help me, somebody help me he’s going to- going to hurt me oh by Primus help!”_

It all spilled out in a rush of confusion and hurt; genuine, raw hurt. He was so frightened.

Perceptor didn’t even react to his screaming, as if he couldn’t hear it. His optics were small and dull behind his glasses.

“This will go faster if you submit.”

“No!” Blurr was indignant through his fear, trying to kick though the straps around his pedes kept him from landing a blow, “No! No, no, how dare you! No! Help!”

He didn’t hear the click of mechanisms beneath his howling, but he did see, immediately, the flash of red as Perceptor’s spike slid free, slim and curved. He writhed but Perceptor slid closer still, using his hand to press his plug against Blurr’s groin. He said nothing, stroking himself until prefluid dribbled down the shaft. Blurr shook his head, repulsed as a few hot drops landed on him.

“Stop it stop it stop it _stop it!”_

Sighing slowly in what could have been pleasure or disappointment, Perceptor moved back, stepping off the table. Blurr felt no relief, tugging on his restraints uselessly still, ventilating fast shallow breaths. Walking around to another desk, Perceptor slid a data cable from his wrist and unlocked the third drawer down the side. He looked so strange there, leaning over casually to leaf through his tools as his spike bobbed proud from his hips. Blurr yelled again, knowing it was probably futile but refusing to give in to the reality of it.

“I am going to open you manually now,” said Perceptor, returning to the table with a small double pronged rod in his hands. Blurr shook away from it, optics rolling in their sockets.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare! Longarm would-!” Longarm would do nothing. He wasn’t here. Blurr’s words caught in his throat and choked him, an unexpected sob convulsing in his chest.

Moving back to crouch between Blurr’s legs, Perceptor calibrated something on the device, uncaring. He flicked the end and a small zap of electricity lit up the prongs. He lowered his hand.

Blurr, however, was somewhere else.

He had been trained for this, or similar situations at the very least. Longarm was no longer here, but his training still stuck. Relax, it said, open yourself up. Put the enemy at ease. Let them reveal an opening to you.

His thighs dropped, heels spreading apart, panels opening. All struggle ceased. Perceptor did not flinch.

“I see.”

He set the tool down.

Blurr watched him over his heaving chest, instinctively stilling his spark. Distance yourself. This is your job. Longarm had always told him he had to perform under pressure, when things looked bad. Push on. It’s your job. Complete your mission.

Perceptor poked at his valve with the same clinical care he had had caressed Blurr with earlier, spreading the lips and peering inside. He wasn’t wet, really, but that would change. He could change it. Focusing himself, he could push on. Push past the walls. Longarm _hadn’t_ crushed him.

 Whether Perceptor was pleased with his condition or not, he pulled his hand forward, slipping two fingers inside. They were slim and long, almost uncomfortably so, but Blurr remained still, vents burning, and let his calipers slip open around them. Perceptor’s touch was slow and creeping, pushing and prodding against his nerve clusters in a way that was very unpleasant but produced results, however small. He hooked and curled and Blurr let him, lips sealed tight, and the movements did not cease until he was wet enough that they began to squelch.

He let his helm roll back when Perceptor pushed his spike inside. He had fought too bravely to feign pleasure now, as if the touch was anything but cold inside him, but he could become still, low responsive, on the edge of consciousness. Perhaps Perceptor enjoyed that, because he felt that cold spike inside him pulse a little at his limp posture, let himself ripple a bit in response. Submissive, overwhelmed. Protocol kept him sharp to it, every sloping sigh of anguish carefully calculated. Let him take what he wanted. Let him finish, let him weaken himself.

Perceptor’s spike was not particularly large and it did not hurt. This body was new, supposedly, but it was unsealed and numb. He was not rough, not cruel in his movements, simply mechanical, back and forth, back and forth. Blurr’s body rolled gently with each thrust, hips swaying. His palms went flat. Perceptor’s optics remained down between them, watching his spike disappear into Blurr’s soft valve, the quiet clap of their plating as if met the only sound. The waves pushed down on Blurr’s eyelids again, green and deep, and he waited.

Longarm would pet his thigh, sometimes. It was after they had been training, when Blurr was exhausted and shaking and cold with the condensation of the steam room where the fake interrogations sometimes took place, where Longarm had done what he had to do, and it had always made Blurr feel better. Longarm could go from menacing to kind again in a nano-klik’s time, his real, soft face falling when he was able to appreciate what he had done. He would kneel beside Blurr and rub his sore wrists and ask about internal tears, and Blurr would shake into his touches. He knew they meant something more, at the time, was sure of it. He wanted to believe that when Longarm soothed the marks on his hips he had made during the training, that when he held Blurr’s shoulder and offered his wise council, that he had felt how Blurr did.

When Perceptor came he pulled out. Nothing touched Blurr; he turned away and spilled onto the table with a static hum. Blurr twitched his hips upwards one last time, remembering an old warmth cradled inside himself.

Then he sighed and fell flat. Perceptor took a klik to sit, ventilating slowly, not looking at Blurr. Then he stood and began to clean. It was unhurried, just as all of it had been, self-assured. He was not worried that Blurr would tell, or that if he did it would do anything. He was experienced. Blurr could see it in his slow fingers as they folded the damp cloth he’d run over the table before throwing it into the incinerator. They were steady.

“You aren’t going to spread this around,” he said, as a statement. Blurr watched him wipe his hands together and then steeple his fingers.

“No,” he whispered, the perfect image of a creature defeated, “no, sir.”

He let his helm droop, optics downcast. He was weak, they said, a broken bot. Crushed.

“Of course not,” said Perceptor, clicking something under the desk, “you’ve always been discreet.”

The restraints around his wrists clicked back and he barely reacted, as if he hadn’t noticed. The ones around his legs were manually attached, belts, but he didn’t move to undo them, weak, weak, frozen. Perceptor was fiddling with an injector on his desk, beside some beakers, some small tubes, a hand held monitor. Such a cluttered desk.

“I’ll give you something to help numb it.”

That was his cue, Blurr decided. Complete your mission. Perceptor did not have time to turn before glass and metal shattered against the back of his helm, crushing at the force, the monitor not made to withstand brutality. Complete your mission. Perceptor was face down on the desk, half on the floor, knees shifting as he struggled to retain consciousness. He thought of Longarm, fist raised high in the air, and mimicked the motion. This time, however, the blow hit. Complete your mission. Shards of metal and pink, wet rubber splattered back across his chest and face, too much backlash. It wasn’t clean, but it was good enough. He would make it out alive, uncrushed, and he would complete his mission.

Longarm would be so proud of him.


End file.
